


a light that might give up the way

by lovebeyondmeasure



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drunk Cormoran Strike, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Feelings, One Shot, Post-Career of Evil, Sharing a Bed, it's funny and emotional and there's just a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 20:40:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12992112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebeyondmeasure/pseuds/lovebeyondmeasure
Summary: Robin felt as though she world was slipping slowly off its axis; this night had turned into such an odd thing, like a night out of time. She had expected to spend a few hours working, or perhaps watching a movie, and then sleeping on the couch in the office, if she didn’t feel like going back to her flat. She hadn’t expected to be taking care of a drunken Cormoran Strike...





	a light that might give up the way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reindeerjumper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Carly! I hope you enjoy this, I wrote it just for you.
> 
> She sent me the prompt _"I'm going to take care of you, okay?"_ and we are all the better for it.  
>  Not related to any of my other R/C works, although if you've read "electric potential" you may recognize the apartment, because....surprise....it's how I picture his apartment, haha. Not beta read by anyone other than myself, so if you notice anything egregious, please let me know! Otherwise, please enjoy.  
>   
> Title from Mumford and Son's "Reminder"  
> 
> 
>   
> __  
> A constant reminder of where I can find her  
>  A light that might give up the way  
> Is all that I'm asking for  
> without her I'm lost  
> But my love, don't fade away
> 
> So I watched the world tear us apart  
> A stoic mind and a bleeding heart  
> You never see my bleeding heart
> 
> And your light's always shining on  
> And I've been traveling oh so long  
> 

Robin was eating Chinese takeaway at her desk when she heard the distinctive thumping of Cormoran coming up the stairs. There was something off about it, though, and Robin was so distracted trying to pinpoint what that was that she didn’t move fast enough to hide the fact that she was in.

“‘oo’s in the office? Robin, tha’ you?”

She glanced at the time in the corner of the screen- 1 am- and cursed inwardly. The doorknob rattled, and she heard Cormoran drop his keys. She moved, belatedly, to open the door for him, and realized as she looked up into his face what the difference in his gait was. He was utterly, completely, and totally drunk. Smashed. Pickled. Far worse than the time she’d fished him out of the pub and fed him a kebab. The smell of his breath alone could have gotten her drunk.

“Rob’n! What’re you doin’ here?” His smile was lopsided, his eyes the glitter-bright of someone whose good sense had taken its leave.

“Hullo,” she said, completely at a loss. “What’s gotten into you, then?” Cormoran lurched forward, coming into the room but losing control of his prosthetic just enough to send him towards her at a furious rate. Robin took the brunt of his weight as he grabbed for the door frame.

“Oof! Cormoran, what the fuck?”

“I like it when you swear,” he said nonsensically. “Your Yorksh're comes out when you swear.” He pulled himself upright and made his way purposefully to the couch, which let out a truly disgusting noise as he sat down, which of course caused him to snort a laugh.

He looked up at her, still standing in the doorway. “Swear again, Rob’n,” he cajoled. “Go’n, say fuck.”

“What the fuck,” she said again. His face split into a grin that might have been charming, under other circumstances. 

“There’t’is! ‘s good to see you, Rob’n. Why am I seeing you?” He looked around the office, then back at her, his gaze sharpening a bit. “What’re you doin’ in the office?”

“I-” Robin was embarrassed to answer. “My flatmate’s boyfriend is in town. From Australia. It’s a bit…. loud.”

He stared at her without comprehension for a beat, then began to laugh. 

“It’s not funny!” she protested, then became self-conscious about her Yorkshire, then realized that maybe yeah, it might be funny. Just a bit.

“I didn’t think people got sexiled after uni,” Cormoran said, surprisingly coherent. “That’s rubbish, though.”

“Yeah,” Robin said, nervously tucking her hair behind her ear. “So I was just, y’know, waiting them out. And I didn’t…” she folded her arms across her stomach tightly. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go. So.”

“Is tha’ from the new place ‘round the block?” Cormoran asked, once more switching topics on a dime. He was pointing to her takeaway. “The, the,” he snapped his fingers.

“Golden Dragon? Yeah, not half bad,” she said, knowing where it was going. “I’m nearly done, if you want some. Couple of crab rangoon in there, ‘s well.”

“Oh, well,” he said, reaching to get up, “be a shame to waste it.” He was unsuccessful in his attempt, and looked down at the couch with what some people might have described as a pout. The couch farted at him, as if to rub it in. 

“Cormoran,” Robin said, trying to hid her smile, “do you need a hand?”

“No,” he said, his jaw jutting out mulishly. “I need a foot.”

At this she couldn’t help but laugh, and when she looked at him his pout was tugging itself into an unwilling smile.

“Go on, laugh at the gimp, then,” he sighed, which only made her laugh more, which did finally pull a real smile onto his broad face.

“Sorry, sorry,” she gasped finally. “Cormoran Blue Strike, what am I to do with you?”

“Give me those rangoon?” She smiled back at him, and in the lamplight his craggy face could almost be handsome.

“Alright, then.” She handed him the container, and he smiled up at her with drunken pleasantry, and she made a decision that she had probably made when she heard him drop his keys. 

“You’re very drunk, aren’t you.” She said it as a statement of fact, but he responded as if it were a question.

“Well,” he said through a mouthful of imitation crab, “I’m sloshed, you could say.” He swallowed. “A bit blotto. Mildly mullered.”

Now Robin was laughing again, hiding her mouth behind her hand as he went on, catching steam.

“A touch tashered. Slightly sozzled.” He tilted his head. “I am… nicely irrigated with horizontal lubricant.” He pronounced these last two words with great care and relish, and Robin’s cheeks began to hurt from smiling so much.

“In that case, Mister Strike,” she said, leaning back against the desk to look down on his curly head, “I’m going to take care of you, okay?”

“I don’t need a-” Cormoran began to say, then hiccoughed and nearly choked on a rangoon. He coughed wetly for a moment before swallowing and, she was amused to see, blushing.

“Mmm?” Robin arched an eyebrow at him.

“Right. You can stay,” he said, the hint of his pout back on his lips, and Robin felt oddly triumphant. This was not a man who liked to be taken care of. He tucked himself away, never showing the soft bits that she knew were hiding beneath that great hard shell he wore. This felt like a victory.

“If you think you can bear it,” she said to the top of his head, “why don’t we get you upstairs, and you can take your leg off?”

This was daring; they rarely said anything about his prosthetic in any but the most veiled of terms, in gentle hints and tiny nods. She was, she supposed, seeing how far she could push him, and was perhaps taking advantage of his drunken state, as well.

“Mm,” he said around a mouthful of crab. “Yeah.” He swallowed, and she saw the container was empty. “Get this fuckin’- yeah.”

“Right, then.” She looked at him, considering. “Gimme your hand, then.”

She extended both of her hands, which were dwarfed by his, large and hairy and rough and so strong. She gave a great heave, and he once more lurched directly into her, this time with purpose on both sides. He slung an arm around her shoulder and gave her a tight, momentary squeeze.

“You’re a good sort, Rob’n,” he said, swaying slightly. She pointed them to the door and he went on, seemingly unaware of what his feet were doing. Or possibly unaware of what his mouth was saying. “You’re really… nice. So nice. The nicest. H’ve I ever tol’ you that? You’re so nice, Robin.”

“Thanks, Corm,” she said, out of breath, and he made his way up the stairs. He was using the railing and still she felt as though she was bracing most of his weight. What on earth had prompted him to drink so bloody much?

“You’re so nice, ‘n smart, ‘n pretty. You’re so pretty, Robin, did you know tha’?”

“Thanks, Corm,” she said again, not really listening as she managed to get them to his door. “Right then, where’re your keys?”

Cormoran began patting his pockets, and in Robin’s mind’s eye she saw them, sitting on the couch. 

“Bloody hell, we left them in the office. Stay here, don’t move, I’ll nip down and get them.” She shifted Cormoran’s weight off her shoulder and waited until he was supporting himself before clattering back down at a decidedly quicker pace. 

She snatched the keys from the couch, then, glancing around quickly, made a split-second decision and turned off her monitor, picked up the bag of takeaway and her oversized handbag, and turned off the lamp, locking the office behind her with Cormoran’s key.

“Right,” she said, coming back up to the landing. “Let’s get you inside, then.” Cormoran’s face had lost some of its cheer and he was looking slightly paler, or possibly greener, in the dim light.

She fumbled the unfamiliar key into the unfamiliar lock and let them in, Cormoran stumbling forward and around the door directly onto the bed, which he landed on face-first, heaving a great sigh of relief.

“This bloody leg,” he said, muffled by the mattress. “I gotta get out’f this bloody fuckin’ leg.”

Robin had gone over to the lone chest of drawers, which sat next to a pop-up closet of the sort billed as extra storage for one’s attic. She supposed, looking at it, that this was, in fact, an attic. Behind her, should could hear Cormoran swearing at “these damn buttons” which were “too fuckin’ small” and she stifled a giggle as she flagrantly rifled through the second drawer, assuming that the top would be of the “unmentionable” sort.

She pulled a graphic t-shirt at random, and found in the next drawer neatly folded jeans and sweatpants. In fact, everything was neatly folded, and Robin was once more reminded of the fact that her partner had been in the army and had a system for everything, it seemed.

“I don’t know what you usually sleep in,” she said without turning around, “but I’ve got a top and some joggers for you.”

“Right,” he mumbled. “Toss ‘em here.” A beat later. “Please.”

She smiled at the window. “All right, then.” She lobbed them over her head, towards the bed, and had the satisfaction of a startled exclamation.

“Robin, how’d you do that?” She was, perhaps, enjoying the fact that he was drunk a bit too much. 

“Let me know when you’re decent,” she said, moving to look out the window. She could hear him grunting with effort, and wondered how complex the prosthetic was. Should she offer to help?

No, she realized. That might be a bridge too far. Even just mentioning it openly had been pushing; actually offering to help might wound his pride more than she could bear to do.

She heard him muttering and resisted the urge to turn around until she heard him thump down onto the mattress.

“‘m as decent as ‘ll ever be,” he mumbled, and she came over to the bed where he lay. His clothes were crumpled on the floor, and he was dressed in the clothing she’d picked out for him; she was amused to see that the shirt, in fact, was clearly a giveaway, and read “I Braved The Shave!”

“You braved the shave?” she asked, picking up his button down to hang it. No reason to let it wrinkle any more than it already had. 

“Oh,” he said, patting the gentle curve of his stomach. “Yeah. Shaved m’head in the forces. One’ve the off’cers wives got canc’r, and they did a, a whole,” he waved his hand, “whole thing, for research. Rare canc’r. She lived.” He nodded. “Bunch’ve us... shaved our heads. Thought it might stop the… hair jokes.”

“And did it?” Robin asked, hanging up his trousers next to his shirt on the slim closet bar. 

“F’r a while,” he sighed, rubbing his head. “Grew back… just as curly. Fuckin’ hair.” He shook his head, as if to illustrate his point, and Robin smiled again. She rathered liked drunk Cormoran, even if he was terribly heavy.

“You’ve got a nice… nice smile, Rob’n,” he said, yawning hugely. “Y’r very pretty. Did I tell you that?” He yawned again, a jaw-cracker. “Very pretty.”

“Thank you,” she said, tucking back her hair and unable to stop the soft smile from growing. He had to mean it, right? _In vino veritas,_ and all that. Although, come to think of it…

“So what were you drinking?” she asked casually, walking over to the slapdash setup that clearly served as a kitchen, looking for a glass. “Must’ve been some good stuff.”

“Nah,” he replied, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his large hands. “J’st, y’know, scotch. Just to…” he trailed off into a yawn. “To not have to….” His face was closing off, now, and she didn’t think she was imagining it; tightening in, tensing. 

“Not have to what?” She held out the plastic cup of water she’d filled. “Drink up, or you’ll regret it tomorrow.”

He sat up fully, then, his knees over the edge of the mattress, and looked at her from under hooded brows. “Not have to think about it.” He sighed and took the water, taking deep gulps. Robin glancing through the open door of his absolutely tiny bathroom, and hoped fervently that he would be able to navigate it by himself, because they were certainly not both going to fit in there, and he was certainly going to need it.

He finished the water and held the cup out; Robin took it and went back into the kitchenette. She was tempted to ask what he was trying not to think about, but didn’t; it was in her nature to prod and pry, to find out the whos and whats and whys, but this wasn’t a client and wasn’t a mark. This was _Cormoran_ , and she would leave him that last privacy.

“You’re so nice,” Cormoran said once more, squinting up at her. She hadn’t turned on any light in the tiny apartment, letting the ambient street lighting suffice. The space was warm with shadows, and she was loathe to blind either of them with bright lights. Easier on drunken eyes, and kinder. “You’re so…. you’re so good, Robin.”

“You’re just saying that,” she teased gently, reaching out to touch his hair. She had been resisting the urge to touch his hair for what felt like months, now, ever since she’d… well, for a while. And this might be her only chance; this soft, sleepy Cormoran wouldn’t stop her. She threaded her slim fingers into the bushy thatch above his wide, battered face, and scratched his scalp gently. 

His hair was even thicker than she’d thought, and rougher, but just as supple. She wondered idly what he washed it with; knowing him, basic two-in-one, one of the scentless varieties.

Robin was startled when she felt him arch up beneath her touch, pressing into her hand, tilting his head to give her better access. His eyes had slid shut, and he had a look of concentration on his face, a focus all out of sync with the slightly dazed, drunken Cormoran of only moments before.

She scratched him again, firmly, with more intent, and he sighed, an almost sweet sound. Entranced, she slipped her other hand up to press both into his hair and his chin tilted back and she could swear he purred. 

“Don’ stop,” he murmured, and she was so grateful for how muzzy he sounded, _still drunk, thank god,_ that she nearly did stop.

“Yeah?” she whispered, afraid to step closer, though the angle his head was now at nearly demanded it of her.

“Feels so- nice, Robin, you’re so nice. ‘n smart. You’re so good, Robin. ‘m so lucky.”

Robin could feel herself blushing at this, drunken praise though it was. “I’m lucky, too,” she said, softly, fingers still moving against his scalp, and took that single half-step closer, so that she could reach the back of his head. 

He smiled, then. “There’s your Yorksh’re. Loo-cky,” he mimicked. “I love that.”

Robin felt as though she world was slipping slowly off its axis; this night had turned into such an odd thing, like a night out of time. She had expected to spend a few hours working, or perhaps watching a movie, and then sleeping on the couch in the office, if she didn’t feel like going back to her flat. She hadn’t expected to be taking care of a drunken Cormoran Strike, and she _certainly_ hadn’t expected to be standing nearly between his knees, her hands in his hair, being told he was lucky to have her.

She simply stood there, not saying anything, letting her fingers roam through the tangle of his hair in the shadowy light. The sounds of London at night were familiar, soothing; some traffic, a dog barking in the distance. A woman’s voice, coming closer and receding into the distance; she was clearly on the phone. Robin wondered what time it was; it had been nearly 1 am when Cormoran found her in the office; it had to be close to 2 by now. They should both get some rest, though tomorrow was- well, today was Sunday, and they would have no clients.

“I don’t deserve you, Robin,” Cormoran said in a sleepy voice, beginning to slump down. Robin made as if to back away, but one of his large arms came up and he touched the back of her calf, just slightly, as if to say don’t, stay here with me, please. She stopped moving, and felt as though she’d stopped breathing as well.

“Do you know,” he said, yawning once more, “do y’know what I didn’t want to think about?”

“No,” she whispered to the top of his head. “You don’t have to tell me, Cormoran. It’s all right.”

He shook his head. “No. I oughta- I wanna tell you. I should-” he sighed. “Charlotte’s having a baby. A real baby, this time.” 

Robin didn’t know precisely what he meant by that, but made a soft sound of assent, to show she was listening. 

“She sent- a magazine-” he sighed again, yawning, and leaned forward. Robin was sure, now, that she wasn’t breathing; his face was nearly at her midsection, and if he leaned any further forward he would be leaning onto her. His hand, still at the back of her leg, kept her anchored there, between his knees.

“A magazine,” he said again. “‘n there were pictures- of her- her stomach, the bump, y’know, and a- a- picture- y’know-”

“A sonogram,” she said softly. He nodded, and she could almost see his shoulders cave in, see the defeat he carried like the weight of the world. 

“‘n I just- can’t- I can’t-” And now he did slump forward those last few centimeters, so that his face was pressed into her belly, and Robin’s arms came up almost of their own accord to cradle his head against her. His shoulders jerked, and Robin realized with a shock that he was crying, softly.

“I couldn’t- I can’t-” he was saying, brokenly, into her midsection, and Robin made shushing noises, gently carding her fingers through his hair once more. His arms came up around her, and she could feel how his great hands fisted into the material of her cardigan, how he was clutching, looking for something to hold on to. 

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s alright, shh,” she was saying, and he cried silently now, his body, which normally seemed so large, so imposing, feeling very small somehow. She let one hand rest on the back of his head, stroking the curve of his skull, while the other rested at the crook of his neck, her thumb stroking along the powerful muscles bunched there. 

“Shh, I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you,” she whispered into the stillness of the night, the shaking man she now held wrapped in what comfort she had to offer. “I’ve got you, Cormoran. Shh, shh.”

After another minute of this, he heaved a deep breath, pulling back from her, his arms loosing their tight hold. He rubbed his eyes, and looked almost embarrassed. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t-”

“No, Corm,” she said, laying one hand lightly on his shoulder. “I’m your partner, and more than, that I’m your friend. That’s exactly what I’m here for.”

He was looking down now, not meeting her eyes. She moved to step backward once more, away from the terrible aching closeness that they’d shared, and once more his hand came up, so gentle, at the back of her calf.

“Don’t go,” he said, looking at the floor.

“Alright,” Robin agreed, before she could think better of it. If he needed her, and he clearly did, she’d stay. 

“Yeah?” he asked, head coming up now to squint up at her. She let the hand on his shoulder move to cup his cheek, just a momentary press, and watched his face shift beneath her palm. 

“Whatever you need,” she said softly. “I’ll stay, if you want me to.”

“I do want you to,” he said, eyes slipping closed.

“Then I’ll stay,” she said, letting the ghost of a smile tug at her lips. “Why don’t you lie down, you look absolutely knackered.”

“Is that-” _yawn_ “the nice Robin way-” _yawn_ “of telling me I look like shit? _yawn_

“Maybe it is,” she said, pushing gently against his head to encourage him to move. He leaned back, crawling his way towards the pillows. “And get under the covers, you booby,” she said, now smiling. 

He made a vaguely rude gesture as he began to tug the blanket down. As he was nearly situated, he paused.

“You’ll stay, right, Robin?”

“Yes,” she said again, wondering what their relationship would look like in the morning, if he would go back to the closed-mouth man she’d come to understand, as much as he could be understood, or if he’d let himself be more like this, loose and open. Probably not, she though. The alcohol pried back the shell, but once he sobered up, it would snap closed again, and this would be a hazy memory.

“Come’re then,” Cormoran said, jerking his head to indicate she should come closer. “Come sit.”

“I-” Robin didn’t know what to do. She hadn’t thought- did he mean for her to come share his bed? A glance around the space revealed that her only other option was an ancient easy chair, which might actually suffice.

“Please?” Cormoran said, and the rawness of his voice did funny things to the space where she thought her heart might be in her chest. 

“I’m still in my work clothes,” she said, by way of an excuse.

“Then change,” he sighed into the pillow.

“I-” she looked once more at the rough lines of his face, the tension in his brow, and found herself wanting to smooth it out. “Alright.” She wondered, as she reached for her bag, when she had become the sort of woman who agreed to things without thinking about them first.

It might just be an effect that Cormoran had on her, Robin acknowledged to herself in the privacy of her mind, as she went about wiggling into the tank and yoga pants she’d brought in her bag, in case she decided to go to gym. She wasn’t usually like this, she didn’t think.

Once she was clad in the comfortable pajama-like clothing, she walked softly to the side of the bed, where Cormoran seemed to be asleep. Hearing her, he opened one eye, and a smile split across his face.

“You stayed,” he said.

“I said I would,” she replied. He had left one side of the bed free, and she carefully sat down, back against the wall, pulling the pillow up behind her as a cushion.

“You did say,” Cormoran mumbled. “You keep promises. You’re Robin.”

Touched, Robin reached out to stroke his hair once more. “I do,” she said. “Or at least I try to.”

“‘s what counts,” he mumbled, and then, surprising her, he wriggled his pillow over so that it laid across her lap. Now comfortably ensconced across her legs, pinning her down, he sighed, the corner of his mouth tucked upward. “Thanks, Robin.”

“For what?” she asked, stroking his head in comfortable, familiar motions.

“F’r staying. F’r being there. You’re- I couldn’t,” he sighed, settled. Robin felt her heart weigh heavy in her chest, at how comfortable, how natural it felt, to be there. “You’re so smart,” he said. “So good. You’re the best, Robin.”

She felt herself, unexpectedly, well up with tears. The first thing, the very first thing, he said she was, was smart. No one had ever... 

It was perhaps the first time in her life she felt as though someone valued what was inside of her head, instead of just her pretty face and hair. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, and it wasn’t the first time she’d ever thanked him, not even the first time that night. Morning? But it was the first time she had ever truly meant it, with her whole self.

“Y’r welcome,” he said into the pillow. “Stay here with me?”

She smiled down at him, this huge mess of a decent man who meant so much to her. “You know I will,” she said. 

“Good,” he said. “Good.”

And after another minute or so, he faded into sleep, his whole body heaving with deep, even breaths, and Robin knew that sleeping upright, against the wall, was not a good idea- and yet. And yet. And she sat there, playing with the hair of her partner and friend and- she let herself drift, in the early-morning sounds of a city at rest.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always taking prompts over on [my tumblr](http://lovebeyondmeasure.tumblr.com); if anyone would like to see a shareable tumblr post with a banner, just say the word.


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